


Like Coal and Roses

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Death, Comfort/Angst, Coming to Terms with Death, Gen, Kid Fic, Original Character Death(s), Terminal Illnesses, bb!dorf addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:25:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt in the kink meme, "The dwarves know humans get sick. They know they can die from it. However, it is one thing to know it and another to see it firsthand, especially when it is someone you have come to care about.</p><p>I want a fic where a dwarf from the company is confronted with the realities of human sickness for the first time. "</p><p>Little Bofur regularly makes friends with the human children who live in the Blue Mountains. He's used to them outgrowing him, but he's never known one to be there one day and gone the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Coal and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story. Read original prompt and fill here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6263.html?thread=15663991#t15663991
> 
> I wrote this to Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know," so you can think of that, as if the story isn't sad enough already.

In the Blue Mountains, it might happen that two babes would be born on the same day. Indeed, there is nothing so unusual in that. Both would have a mother and father, maybe a sibling or two either eagerly anticipating their arrival or yet to be born. They would be born of simple stock, neither wealthy nor destitute. It would seem their lives were fated to run similar courses, but the difference would soon be evident to the least keen observer. For while one babe would walk, grow, work, marry, live and die within sixty years, the other who trod upon the earth for the same amount of time would remain essentially a child still.  
  
Bofur was not quite old enough to recognize the pattern, though he observed it many times over the twenty-five years of his  life. Though he had many friends among the dwarves of the Ered Luin, there were children of Men who would play with the dwarflings during the long hours when their parents worked in the fields, mines and mills and their children had little to occupy themselves. Many came and went over the years boys and girls who began to turn up less and less when work was to be done or the inclination to indulge in childish games and pastimes faded.  
  
It was rare that they would simply cease coming out altogether, without a waning period of weeks or months. The strangeness of the absence of one of his playmates was what made Bofur stand in front of a Mannish dwelling, cap in his hands, knocking on the door one late autumn afternoon in search of a missing friend.  
  
Limyr, a child of Men with hair like fresh straw and a complexion that was more freckles than pale skin in the summer months, was Bofur’s newest companion. He was taller than him, but not half as strong or hardy, like all children of Men. Sometimes it could be a bother, modifying their play so they didn’t hurt the other children who could not take as much of a beating as dwarflings, nor could they run or climb or scream as long.    
  
They became fast friends and confidantes when Bofur confessed that he was not altogether certain he _liked_ his little brother. Víli, Bofur’s best friend in all the world, was the only child his parents had and he said Bofur should count himself lucky to have a little brother to play with. Limyr, the eldest in his family, offered a sympathetic ear to his troubles.

“Bombur’s alright, I s’pose,” he said, picking idly at a tear in the knee of his trousers that would likely become a hole to patch ere suppertime. “But he’s walking about now - not walking _good_ he falls a lot, but he’s getting in me things. I tell him to stop it, but he don’t! Just carries on like I never said nothin’ about it. I think he’s a bit stupid.”  
  
“Probably,” Limyr nodded. He had _two_ younger brothers and knew what a bother they were. “Babies are stupid - but don’t tell your Ma that. Mas get a bit stupid themselves ‘bout babies and are liable to give you a smack for speaking the plain truth.”  
  
“Aye, that’s true,” Bofur nodded vigorously. “Me whole family’s gone daft over him, Da, Ma, me aunties and uncles. Even Bifur! I thought Bifur had sense!”  
  
“They got some magic power over grown folks, babes have,” Limyr observed sagely. “But they’re not so bad, after a while. When Bombur’s grown a bit - when he’s talking more regular and can play along of you ‘stead of just nicking your own things to break ‘em, you’ll probably get right fond of him.”  
  
“Doubt it,” Bofur said, shaking his head. “He’s useless - you alright?”

Limyr coughed, a deep hacking noise that sounded wrong coming from so wry a body and spit in the grass. The spit was a color Bofur had never seen come from anything, Man or Dwarf - or even Bombur and he was a source of a wide variety of colorful liquids and odd noises.  
  
“Eurgh, what’d you eat that come up so strange?” Bofur asked, wrinkling his nose.  
  
Limyr ran his sleeve across his face and sniffled. “Nothin’. I got a cold, s’all. Should be alright in a  few days, but me chest hurts something awful nights and when I run.”  
  
“I could give you me scarf,” Bofur said, unwinding it from his neck and holding it out. The thick wool yarn was tightly knitted blue and red, his favorite colors. His mother gave it to him a few weeks ago and the weather was turning sharp enough that he had cause to wear it. Still, if Limyr was cold, Bofur was happy to put the scarf to use in warming him up.  
  
Limyr smiled at him and tied it loosely around his throat. “Thanks,” he grinned at Bofur. “Feel better already.”  
  
He did not play at tag and Dwarves (and Men) versus Trolls with the other dwarflings, but he watched and cheered them on when he could, coughing wetly every few minutes and growing a little paler as the day went on. Víli, who did not like to see anyone left out, offered to run back to his family’s home to fetch his bag of marbles.  
  
“It’s a game you can play sitting down,” he reassured him kindly. “I won a whole heap of ‘em off Roginn last week, so I got lots to share.”  
  
“Ta very much, but I think I’ll go home,” Limyr said, getting shakily to his feet. “I’m tired.”  
  
He began to untie Bofur’s scarf to return it, but the dark-haired dwarrow lad shook his head and lay his short, wide hands over Limyr’s long, slender ones.    
  
“Nah, keep it,” Bofur offered. “You still got a cough, so that means you’re still cold. I’ll take it back when you’re good and warmed up.”  
  
When he came home that night and his mother inquired where he’d lost his new scarf Bofur reassured her that he hadn’t lost it at all. “Limyr was cold, so I let him borrow it,” he told her as he sat down at the kitchen table for supper. “He’ll give it back when he don’t have need of it no more. Tomorrow, probably.” And he ducked when Bombur decided that _throwing_ his potatoes was a much better use for them than actually eating them.  
  
But Limyr did not return the scarf on the morrow. Quite the contrary, when the dwarflings and their companions met in the usual patch of grass behind the village shops, he did not appear at all. Nor did he come the next day. When Bofur asked where he was, a red-haired girl named Hilde told him that Limyr was feeling poorly and his mother said he was not well enough to play.  
  
Bofur did not understand. Was he still cold? Did Limyr’s family not have furs and blankets enough to warm him? Bofur only had a few blankets to his name, he could sleep in his coat and give one to them, if they had need of it.  
  
But when he returned home the next night he found his bed stripped of blankets, taken in for laundering. While he’d been playing with his friends, Bombur made a mess of his quilts and blankets, forcing Bofur to spend the night between his parents in their bed rather than wrapped up snug in his trundle until wash day.  
  
It was almost a fortnight since he’d last seen Limyr, which was what led him to take the bold action of going to the Mannish part of town to inquire of the family directly. He knew his mother was a fabric dyer and it only took him a few polite inquiries to find out where the family lived. The way the folks looked him over when he asked made him feel a little queer inside, like how he felt when a sunny day turned grey and rainy out of nowhere. It was that half-knowing that came when the first dark cloud puttered across a blue sky, the unhappy knowledge that something foul was afoot.

A woman of Man, tall, slim and bare-faced answered the door. She must have been Limyr’s mother for they had the same freckles and pale green eyes, only hers were red and puffy whereas Limyr’s were usually bright and laughing. It took her a moment before she spotted Bofur and she seemed taken aback to find a dwarfling on her doorstep. “‘Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, respectfully, as his mother taught him. “I...I was wondering if Limyr felt better. I gave him me scarf so he’d not be cold no more.”  
  
“Oh!” the woman breathed, sudden understanding flooded her face, but her eyes wrinkled around the edges and her mouth puckered. “You’re Bofur, then...he was very fond of you.”  
  
“He’s not fond of me no more?” Bofur asked, wide-eyed and alarmed, craning his neck all the way back to look up at Limyr’s mother. “What’d I do?”  
  
“Oh, dear, no, it’s not...” she knelt down so that Bofur did not have to tilt his head back so far to look at her. Now that she was closer, Bofur saw quite clearly that she was crying, her face was red and raw and tears swam in her eyes. “Limyr passed away, dear. Three nights ago.”  
  
“Oh,” Bofur said, scuffing his toe in the dirt of the street. “Will he be back soon?”  
  
The woman’s face crumpled again and she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “No, no, he’s...” She took a breath and it seemed to take all the strength in her to speak again, “He died.”  
  
“What?” Bofur asked, his expression stricken. “How?”  
  
Children did not die, not in his experience of the world. How could they? They did not go to war to be killed beneath the axes of an enemy, they did not work in the mines under threat of cave-in. Their mothers and fathers took care of them and fed them so they did not die for lack of food. Sometimes babies died, they were born weak or not born at all, but not children like Limyr. It was impossible.  
  
“He was very, very ill,” his mother explained, gently, despite her tears. She rose and beckoned Bofur to come just inside the doorway. There were others in the house, women, men and children, many of whom had that straw-colored hair and those freckles, but none of whom were Limyr. They did not seem to see Bofur, small as he was and standing quietly in the doorway. “Wait here.”  
  
Bofur waited, his mind awhirl for he did not _understand_. He knew what death was, of course. Dwarves fell in battle or, more rarely, were crushed to death in tunnel collapses. Sometimes, orcs or wolves invaded a town and so they were killed - that was it. He’d never known a young Dwarf to die, young Dwarves did not die, young Dwarves were _killed_. Limyr had been killed, then. But what by?  
  
His mother returned a moment later with a piece of cloth folded in her hands. “He said this was yours,” she said, holding out Bofur’s scarf. He took it with numb hands. “It was very kind of you to give it to him, he...talked about you. He said you were a good friend.”  
  
The scarf. He’d given it to Limyr because he said he was cold. The cold killed him then. And Bofur’s scarf had not been enough to keep him warm. Remembering his manners just enough to thank his friend’s mother for giving him his scarf back, Bofur returned home, but did not put it back on. Instead, he dropped it by the doorway when he came home and rounded on his brother who was sitting on the rug by the fire, playing with Bofur’s wooden blocks. Bombur smiled his usual toothless smile when he saw his brother, but Bofur would have none of it.  
  
“It’s your fault!” he screamed at Bombur, pushing his brother on his back, making the babe weep and wail with fright. “It’s all your fault! I was going to give him me blankets and you got ‘em dirty and then he got too cold and now he’s dead!”  
  
“Bofur!” his father thundered, running into the sitting room and snatching Bombur up in his arms. The baby buried his face in his father’s beard and sobbed. “What are you doing? You don’t _shout_ at your brother like that! Scared him half to death!”  
  
“It’s his fault!” Bofur said and he was crying too he realized, just as hard as Bombur. His breath came in gasps and his face went red as tears poured from his eyes.

“What’s his fault?” his mother asked, taking Bombur from her husband and rocking him gently. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Limyr’s dead and Bombur killed him because he got too cold and I couldn’t bring him me blankets!” The words came in starts and fits, some too warped by sobs and gasps to make out, but Bofur’s parents’ understood. His mother withdrew to quiet Bombur and his father knelt down and took Bofur in his own arms.  
  
“Hush,” he said soothingly, rubbing a big rough hand up and down his son’s back. “Hush now. I’m sorry about your friend, me lad. I’m so very sorry. But - Bofur, he didn’t die of cold. He died of sickness. And that’s no one’s fault. It’s a sad, sad thing. But you can’t be blaming no one for it. Sometimes...these things happen.”  
  
“They don’t,” Bofur insisted into his father’s coat, shaking his head. “They don’t. Not dwarflings.”  
  
“No, not dwarflings,” his father patiently, sitting on the floor and placing Bofur in his lap. The little boy curled up and clutched his father’s coat hard, still crying as though his heart was broken. “But children of Men can, they do. They’re different from us, you know that,”  
  
“They live in houses made of wood and sod, not in stone. They’re tall, but not strong. They don’t got hair on their faces. That’s it,” Bofur insisted stubbornly.  
  
“That’s not just it,” his Da said, looking up at his wife who returned in the sitting room. She looked sorrowfully at her son while her husband tried to come up with an explanation Bofur would understand. “It’s like coal and roses.”

Bofur pulled away from his father’s chest and looked at him, all confusion. “What?”  
  
“We’re like the stones of the mountain,” his Ma said, kneeling down on the floor beside them and resting one hand on the back of Bofur’s neck. “Men...they’re like flowers in a field. They bloom quickly. You must break a rock to destroy it, but roses, if they don’t have water or sunlight, they can sicken. Do you understand?”  
  
Bofur shook his head miserably. “No,” he lamented. For Limyr was not a flower, but a boy. Like him in so many ways, only Bofur was still alive and in his house with his parents, but Limyr...Limyr was gone. He’d never play or laugh or run again. And his Ma and Da would not hold him nights. And no one could tell him why.  
  
Sighing slightly his mother continued. “We’re made different, Men and Dwarves - not that one’s better than any other. Just different. We get older slower. What can kill a Man don’t hardly wind a Dwarf. And a little cough in the throat can turn into a big sickness as can cause a Man to die. It’s just how we’re made, love. I’m sorry it’s got to be that way, but that’s how it is.”  
  
And though Bofur still did not understand, he knew that there was nothing else to say. He was uncommonly quiet for the rest of the night, though he did apologize to Bombur and kissed him before supper. Bofur did not eat, simply moved his food around and around his plate with his knife. Bombur, noticing his brother’s full plate, picked up his own spoon and stuck it right in Bofur’s potatoes.  
  
Bofur braced himself to duck, but Bombur just held the spoon out to his brother and made insistent babbling noises. “ _’Fur_ ,” he said in his high, baby-voice. “Tay-oh.”  
  
And though he did not want to, he took a mouthful of spuds. Bombur smiled and, despite himself, Bofur smiled back. It was a small one and evaporated when he remembered one of the last things Limyr said to him, _When Bombur’s grown a bit...you’ll probably get right fond of him._  
  
It felt almost like changing one friend for another. Maybe this was a sign of the greed dwarves were known for, but Bofur did not want to take one or the other. Couldn’t he have both?

A few days later, his father offered to take Bofur to visit the place where Limyr was buried and Bofur agreed. It was after his father came home from work and Bofur spent all day finding the perfect rock to place atop Limyr’s headstone. It was a very small stone, but unique, black with white running through it. And so smooth his father said an obliging crow must have brought it all the way from the sea to the Ered Luin.  
  
On the way to the graveyard used by Men, (above ground, unprotected, where the stones would be worn away by wind and weather, all within a Dwarf’s lifetime), Bofur stopped and picked one of the last roses of summer. The prickles stung his fingers, but they did not bleed. Limyr’s stone was quite small, just a name and date beneath half a dozen other names and dates that meant nothing to Bofur. They did not stay long. Uncharacteristically, Bofur did not have much to say.  
  
“G’bye, Limyr,” he said softly, laying the rose down with the stone atop its stem so it did not blow away. “I’ll miss you.”  
  
Could he hear him? Was he in the Halls of Waiting? Was there a Hall for Men the same as there was for Dwarves? Maybe some of the other names on the stone belonged to children like Limyr who were taken by sickness when they were unfairly, impossibly young.  
  
Maybe they were playing together, wherever they were. That thought made Bofur feel a tiny bit better.    
  
The wind blew against the silken petals of the rose, but the stone held it fast. Turning from the simple headstone, Bofur took his father’s hand and the two of them walked back to the village together.


End file.
